Balaton
by Peridot Tears
Summary: When Roderich falls ill, Hungary - for one reason or the other - accepts Gilbert's help, mercenary he may be. But in the end, the price is hardly worth it.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Sad thing is, I can't even remember the full American anthem. Sad._

...

When Prussia entered Austria's house (through a first-floor window), he was surprised—and annoyed—at the ellipsis that greeted him. The dots were unlimited. His irritation swung from two factors: One, that the familiar presence of that _stupid _piano was not scratching at the air; it meant something to wreak havoc upon, if only for the sake of destruction but mostly for Austria's torment. Two, that each ellipsis seemed to be punctuated by...sobs. It was annoying enough that the house was so _boring—_but it was unnerving, how the silence hung as if for a funeral. The sobs did little to paint the scene a louder color.

But Prussia was Prussia, so he snorted and walked on, picking window glass from his clothes. The shards on the floor were stamped over like snow.

He considered yelling for Austria, but the gloom was something he could hardly fight—its silence was a plague. It was the first the Prussia succumbed to.

As he advanced through the halls—(struggling not to get lost in the near-Labyrinth)—the sobs became more pronounced, and increased in speed; it was disturbing; Prussia had to frown.

The house was hollow and blue.

_Hungary__...?_

And soon Prussia was at the door, watching her hold a fist to her eyes.

And Austria.

He loathed their faces at once.

First of all was that aristocrat—_that stupid, Gott-damned aristocrat..._

The sight's effect was instantaneous; and suddenly all he could think of was a boy, a girl—a boy and a girl. A violent knight who beat up an utterly hopeless nation who could always laugh afterwards, a cheerful boy. _He was never a strong nation, _Prussia thought bitterly, darkly.

The thoughts were but the recipe for a hurricane.

It was but a great sadness that overtook him, stroked with nostalgic honey. There was a boy and a girl. And another boy.

That was long ago—

"Prussia?"

_Damn._

The memories fled like the hurricane it was, but the reel afterwards was a meteor, though banished easily. He blinked—he was back in reality; whatever that was.

Hungary hated him, after all. Not that he could care less.

She was staring up at him, and kneeling—Gott, _kneeling—_at Austria's bedside, eyes a pink-or-red shade; Austria himself was unconscious, or else asleep. Hungary was glaring at Prussia, the fist gone to her side, her other hand clenching Austria's with a cross between gentleness and tightness; though she looked dangerous, a quick check by Prussia's wary eyes reported a lack of frying pans in the perimeter. He deemed it safe enough to step forward, and so he did with a lagging loll.

Hungary didn't move, and it was neither negative nor positive—she could be a leopard or a cheetah. But she continued glaring, and Prussia managed a smirk. "What the hell happened to him?" A gesture at the bedded nation.

She got up.

Prussia managed a new grin, though it was almost sheepish; after she finished doing whatever she wanted with him she could ship the dregs of his existence back to East Germany if she pleased. Not coo—not awesome. He tried, as she neared him, looking more mournful than anything: "What's up with him?" A rude, flailing point at the unconscious Austrian.

Slowly, and very slowly, seeming to have been stripped of bone, she stepped toward him; knowing her, and her strength, as well as her over-protectiveness of Austria, alarm gave him a quick strike at his head. Should he beg for mercy this time, before she sent him off back in a coma? He grimaced for real this time.

He decided that he really didn't want to be shipped back home in pieces again—maybe next time. But not now. He wanted to stay, and witness Austria's silent misery. Choosing not to take a step back, he cocked his head. "Well?"

"Piss off," she replied quietly, her green gaze staring at him steadily—she always looked at him like this, when not in fierce hatred; one hand hovered protectively over Austria, just twitched in indication of what she would do if he was to be harmed. _You couldn't even protect yourself from Turkey without the amazing me, _Prussia reflected. For once, he decided to save that for later. But would she grace him with an answer?—he waited, itching to speak further; usually, he had no such patience.

Five seconds ticked by. Five more. Prussia twitched.

"He's sick," she said finally. Prussia snorted.

"Really," he said sarcastically. "I never would've guessed."

"Piss off."

He shook his head, grinning madly; it suddenly occurred to him that he could stay the whole time, if he wanted—Austria had hit hard times before but now...Prussia had never actually seen him sick enough to count.

"So?"

"...What?" He blinked at her, surprised that it was only a word, and not a blow; in fact, through the redness of her eyes—fuck, fuck, _fuck, _he was loathe to see that, and be reminded, though fear swamped it first—he saw that feral gleam that usually signaled danger; she never looked at him any other way...

"Leave." Something told him that this was the last time she would tell him so...

"Nah, I'd rather stay!" he replied, remembering to grin. "I mean—" He backed up as a ladle appeared in her hand, sweating profusely (and where did _that _come from!); with a sheepish chuckle, he tried a different route. "I—I'll help you get him better if I get to stay! I—" the ladle neared "—I swear I won't do anything, honest! O—on my honor as a Prussian!" He squealed as the ladle met the skin of his forehead, burning; his heart raced, squeezing and contorting itself at his ribs.

"And that's worth a lot!" she growled sarcastically. Green eyes were narrowed, scorching his.  
The ladle was digging into his forehead at this point, and he was forcibly reminded that the thing was only inches away from his _brilliant _brain—"I won't do anything! Promise!" He cracked a grin at her, and she curled her lip at him. Hatred unfurled itself in her eyes, around the red rims; his heart doubled-timed, painfully, and surprisingly, for she had looked at him many times before in ways worse...this was no different...

To his utter surprise, she retracted her arm, and the ladle disappeared so quickly, like a bee and its sting. "You'd better behave, then."

Gilbert snickered suddenly; she sounded like a schoolteacher. Then frowned. "...Wait. ...What?"

Hungary looked away, teeth clearly grit. "I said. You'd better behave." Was that smoke coming out of her ears?—they were buried beneath her hair, but was that...

And he could stay? Of course, why would she tell him that when he wasn't...

How...

_My awesome charm, then! _he told himself. It was miraculous, near-impossible, but somehow...

A grin slowly worked its way up to his face, one of triumph; he was to stay and watch the suffering of the damned aristocrat! "You won't regret it!" he laughed, though she groaned, clearly proving him wrong. With a quick huff she turned about, and walked back to Roderich: There, she ran her fingers through his hair, lovingly, but with a new pace to it; regretful, probably, that she had loosed a menace into his home.

Roderich, of course, was the only one who did not react (being unconscious. And sick. And unhearing.) though Gilbert wouldn't have wanted him to, giving a mental sneer at the face without glasses; it was red and sweaty, and again he wondered what Hungary saw in him. When in hell did such weakness win over...what Hungary already had?

Prussia rolled that out of his mind, yet again; it was the past, and yet what did that matter now? He was to stay!

...

Suddenly, Hungary had a vague urge to smash Austria's piano to bits.

...

**_PT: ...I have no idea. And it's so short...urgh T_T I hope to bring more development in...the next two chapters. They'll be longer. (And I had Writer's Block, but next chapter...I must...do well...;-;) I've been pretty much into trying to jab out some inspiration since I got back from camp, and keep to a relatively lighter tone. And happily started on Kung Fu. And was coerced into summer school. ...OTL. And, um, I'll be writing another PrussiaHungary one-shot to make up for this rather abysmal work. ...Thanks for reading, aru~! –Wanders off to stare listlessly at Huo Yuanjia-_**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: ...What part of "nah" did you not understand?_

...

She pulled the flowers from her hair and dropped them on the table. Had someone decided to waltz in with a camera, and taken a picture from the side, the resulting photograph would have made it seem as if Roderich had died; obviously not the case, and something that visibly charmed and alarmed Hungary at the same time.

In Prussia's case, it was something expected—Austria, weak; they were practically synonyms. The cause of his illness completely escaped him—but he would get well soon, and in the mean time he would immortalize the face of his suffering, complete with the huffing sounds...thank goodness for whoever invented the camera, for it was much more convenient than painting.

...And then there was that _other _issue...

"Is that a _camera, _Prussia?"

He winced and whipped it back into his pocket as he turned to Hungary. And her scowl. "What camera?" An innocent—as innocent as it could get—grin.

With enough menace to stare the Mona Lisa down, she pointed her pan—_where did you get that?—_at the lump at his side. _"That."_

"H—have you ever considered getting professional help?" he retorted, feeling a trickle of sweat down the side of his face. "I mean, you must be seeing things—"

There was a loud _crack!_ as her pan went to his side—"Ach!" And he went down like a doll.

"I was told"—another metallic bang into his side; he curled up in a fetal position—"that I wouldn't regret it"—another crack; he could just feel his skin purpling beneath his shirt. "And yet I already do." Twelve more iron smacks; Prussia managed to catch his breath only after she withdrew.

"D-Damn, woman!" he gasped, hands against the soreness. "Why aren't you committed?"

"Why aren't you, for that matter?" He waited for the next hit.

It didn't come.

"Get up," she snapped irritably; with her free hand she yanked him up, and none too gently. "If I have your Prussian word"—his eyes widened at her, and he spluttered—"then you'll make sure I don't regret this any more than I already do." She shoved him, towards the door. "Get your ass in the bathroom and find the medicine—and no, Roderich doesn't keep any cyanide in there, don't even try."

He turned to pout, and to add that the house (mansion) was about as large as—

He changed his mind; the pan was still in her hand.

...

Austria's house sure was blue.

...Why?

Prussia stared up at the ceiling hanging above him—for someone so frugal, his house sure was grand. He glanced about the walls, flushed with aqua, and at the window: The day was young.

Breathing a bit, he strolled about some more, with some cross between ease and unease.

"Fuck," he muttered once, passing beneath a huge oil painting of...some Austrian composer, he could really care less.

No matter how many times he broke in, he would never get used to the useless grandeur. What he knew was much more alive than this, and twelve times more audacious.

He tripped once and twice, and it was only about half an eternity later did he find a bathroom, and it did have medicine. Only—

She never asked for which. Prussia's eyes widened at the display; he knew Austria was a priss who couldn't stand even the smallest scratch but...

"SCHEIßE!" he huffed, thickening the silence, and damn him if Elizaveta heard from a few miles away. Plucking a few without looking, he dashed out the door.

And again—the house was so _blue..._

He was back, fifty minutes later, and Hungary scowled, but said nothing. She did, however, step on his foot, and the tiny shriek was ignored in favor of searching through the smaller apothecary. Somehow, Prussia did not perceive his day as one in which he was less manly than he usually was, but perhaps it was because of the cell phone he was currently setting into his sleeve, just so that it captured poor, sweaty Austria, who just about looked like he was coming out of a bad fuck—

No, no, wait, Hungary was glaring at him again, and the pan wasn't nearly awesome enough for his epitome-of-awesome self, maybe he would—

Fuck.

"What, were arrows too mild for you?" He blocked this one, the bits of his cracked phone digging into his wrist.

She paused this time, and looked at him, as if to ask, simply, How far into the past are you? In reply he scowled, heart thudding once, in denial. With a scoff, he turned back to Austria, the sudden urge to spit on him taken into consideration. He loved annoying him; Roderich was nothing but a pansy, as far as he could see...it was too fun to annoy him...

And yet...

The pan disappeared from the corner of his eye, and he pulled his lips into something of a pout, and yet not quite.

...

There was a time when Preußen wasn't Preußen, and Magyar was another Magyar. When they were friends, and rivals already, and yet, not quite.

And yet how could that be?

There was a time when there were two men, or at least boys. Prussia could only ache for that time, even when his power was lacking. For at that time, he had no land to call his own.

That was why he tried to take it from Magyar.

...

Roderich wasn't breathing.

Prussia's eyes widened when he realized it; and Hungary, she had gone to the kitchen, because his Prussian honor was worth _much. _That was about the only reason he bent over, slapping Austria's face with a few short cries of his name, not because he found the sight awfully pitiful. Besides, there would be no one else to annoy.

Aside from West.

Aside from Ungarn.

And Poland.

Oh, and Lithuania too.

And Swe—Russ—

He smacked harder, bending over the Austrian's face; he still wasn't breathing! Prussia worked his mind, because he was a soldier, and he should remember—

CPR would work, right?

Prussia's face crinkled, with a slight, immature thought of _eww, _but he bent over anyway, resuscitating. The Austrian smelled of sick, blood, and cake. Gilbert choked.

It was so _raw._

With one hand, he pushed against that area about the navel and ribcage; with the other, he gave a few good slaps against the chest. He lingered in the thoughts of Roderich's feverish lips, thinking in disgust that he'd be rinsing his mouth with _sand _for the next few months. The taste was _disgusting._

But then again, he was a man. He could take this. He was the _lord _of manliness!

With a gagged chortle, he breathed; he held that there, feeling hard for breath.

"Prussia?" He choked again, and switched his eyes at the door, eyes wide. It happened too fast.

Hungary was evil. Prussia was _good._

For once.

But no—Hungary didn't realize that, as she stood over the half-dead man, the lump on his head bobbing up and down as if in water.

...

"I owe you an apology."

Prussia blinked from the couch, wondering what had happened, and what was happening. His last thoughts had been the usual darkness—

Oh. Hungary.

Really, why should he even wonder anymore?

He smirked at her standing next to him. "For what?"

She paused. "...Roderich...he woke up for a moment. He told me...that you were just trying to..."

"Save the bastard's life, of course," he said with a mad grin. "Pretty sharp even for a sick guy."

"...Yes." Her face flushed ruby within an instant; she looked away, pouting like a woman like her would.

"So I'm awesome. He owes me now for something other than being awesome!" Prussia was practically singing; he grinned so hard his cheeks hurt, and his chest felt wonderfully empty; the sleep—coma—had done him good. The thought of saving Austria's life was wonderful; now, every time he and Hungary thought of him, they would think again and again of what he had done to save Roderich's life. When he wasn't breathing. That was...Gilbert grinned. "I'm awesome!" he declared.

"We know..." Hungary clenched her teeth, very visibly.

Her pan met his head once more, before he could suck in the confession; before the blackness swarmed him he could feel the barest press of lips against his.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I NOW KNOW THE FULL AMERICAN ANTHEM. LOVE ME._

_..._

What does "Ich liebe dich" mean?

An expression of love, repeated over and over, so that it is numb and abused—but not "ich liebe dich" in its purest German, for the Germans dislike children, and their solid lovers. They are cold and hard, like the steel that the Prussians bit, tasted. Prussia thought of that, and how it could or could not have described that bit of lost love between him and Ungarn, when they were children; that fresh rivalry, and the strangest friendship between men.

He thought about it a lot—how they had been...frenemies. That would work, right?—it had to. There was no one else to talk to, about this and that, and this or that—secrets to share, though he knew she had Poland as well. But—but it was he she had told of her chest pains to; weakness. She had shot him and beat him, and she still shot him and beat him.

Over and over, he thought about it—he always had, because he could not think of many other nations he could call a friend, or at least something of the sort. If anything, she spoke to him, once—sometime, when she told him her fears, when it was clear that he had the power to take it to his advantage, and then she would probably end up bleeding her life away into the river. He had tried something of the sort.

Maybe that was when she began hating him...

...

When he came to, he thought long and hard about leaving. There was, after all, no reason to stay.

Too fucking depressing, too fucking blue.

Why did he stay?

He wanted to go back to sleep.

The couch was comfortable, anyway. Soft beneath his head, his body...his skin. He opened his eyes, looking at the blue walls, but the ceiling first. It was like looking at the sky.

Times like this, he rather hated life. Hated living. Hated existing without really existing. It is the feeling that sets in after a long day, after every bullet has been shot through word, through action, after the scars roughen, and sear as they do; when one lies at night in bed and thinks, and maybe even cries.

Moments like this, he almost did want to die. Die, or live—to truly live—again.

...

Austria woke up with the breeze in his hair. It flattened inwards from the open window and stirred him till he opened his eyes.

Hungary. Prussia. The first thoughts in his mind. He allowed himself to blink, fever still marked on his skin.

He had heard their voices in his sleep. Perhaps it was some coma-like state; perhaps he drifted in and out of a feverish doze—whatever the case, he had heard them, sometimes even clearly.

Sitting up was no difficult task, though a dizzying one; "Hungary?" he called, blinking his eyes clear. Where were his glasses? He groped about, but didn't even need to; they were in the usual spot on the dresser, right beside the bed. Hungary, bless her, had put it there in accordance to his habits. His hand brushed against her flowers, a familiar feeling.

"Hungary?" he called again, feeling suddenly lonely, and double that feeling when he had his glasses perched on his nose. There was nothing but emptiness. He turned his head here and there; the sleep had been refreshing enough, and he felt grateful enough. Still weak, though. He stared at the walls, noting something of a violet blemish coating them. He looked around his house, the familiar draperies, noting the lighting, the way all was struck by a hint of violet. It provided some eerie comfort—eerie, only because he was alone, and defenseless, and because his voice spread into hollowness. The resounding quality confirmed that he was, indeed, alone.

Up. Get up. That was what happened when one was done with being bedridden, right? He tripped on the way, dizzy, and fell flat on his face before stumbling successfully to the door. The halls, he thought, are a violent shade of purple.

"Hungary?"

No answer.

He frowned. Surely, she didn't leave in a fit of shame after he told her that, yes, Prussia had indeed been helping? He could feel the faintest shade of red brushing over his own face as he pondered the scene in his mind; he shook his head to rid himself of it.

Ah, but to think...he would do such an embarrassing thing for the sake of someone else, and not his own...after all, in which way would he benefit from practically kissing someone he'd much rather keep his distance from...

"Hungary?" He rounded a corner. His voice traveled down the halls.

...

"Hungary?" He massaged the lump on his head, looking about. Not there. Prussia raised an eyebrow as he scoured the room, the halls. Nothing.

Well, then.

He sneezed, the boredom setting in already—he'd just woken up, there was nothing to do—and waltzed down the hall. Might as well cause some damage before he left, right?—especially since now that Four-eyes owed him. He snickered at the thought. Stupid aristocrat. Might as well get his comeuppance for pushing him to do something as gross as— He shuddered, refusing to think about it. Well, might as well wreak some havoc in the house!

Scheisse, that idiot Austrian owed him that, anyway.

He tiptoed around the corner, out of the room, back into the depressing halls; his footsteps clattered on the wooden floor. The sound echoed.

What, he pondered, would he do? Smashing the piano would be a bit too cruel right now—not that he wanted to touch that sissy thing, anyway.

He rounded another corner, his shoes squeaking as he pivoted, on his toes—a habit of his—and peered down the hall as he walked; then to the sides, at the walls, at each door. Which to break into...?

How about that nice, big, not-blue one? This door was different from most of the ones he had seen—somehow, it looked neglected. How, he could not quite comprehend, could not quite pick out. But it was neglected. He felt that it was some doorway to an attic. Ever the impulsive, he reached for the knob, turned, pulled—it wasn't locked, not that that would have posed a problem to begin with—and stepped into the beckoning flight of stairs that greeted him immediately from within.

Gott, even the steps were dusty. By about...half an inch? a full inch?...high. Jesus, would they creak? Closing the door only up to a crack behind him, and telling himself that, Gottverdammt, he was absolutely not scared of the sudden darkness at all, he took a step. It did creak, and so did the next one, and the next, and the next...

He sped up the process, and the creaking sped up, so that it did not sound so lonely as he went.

—And nearly tripped when his foot came down on only air. Blinking, heart having skipped a beat, he flailed for a grip until it came down on the switch—convenient!—and illuminated a—

Gottver_dammt, _even his _attic _was organized! _Schei__ß__e._

And that was how it occurred to him that he never actually had gone up to Austria's attic before. He looked around the room. Who the hell actually _organized _the attic— Oh, right. West. West organized everything. That was why Prussia himself never actually went up to their attic.

As with any other, Austria's was commodious, and it was actually visible through how organized it was. With others, he had seen them as cramped, though they weren't; they were simply cluttered; here, the room seemed to go on and on and on.

How nauseatingly, unnecessarily neat.

Prussia's gaze fell upon one box in particular. It was rather close to him, so it was a good place to start his sabotage; and, unlike the others, this box seemed particularly worn. Reddish, even; the color stood out, flushed somewhere near maroon. Of course he leapt for it—anyway, it was unlocked—and lifted the (heavy!) lid, trying not to choke on the dust. He let out a cough regardless.

And…

And...

He peered inside the box, muttering to himself, squinting—"It clogs my awesome lungs and stuff"—trying to see:

A mound of black.

Black _cloth._

Perhaps dark gray? The lighting shifted the color. Perhaps it was faded. And, for whatever reason, seeing it now gave him the strangest sensation, as if some sort of gnat had wormed its way into his heart and was now gnawing at the corners. Opening up a chamber. Maybe a window.

He blinked red eyes against smoky blackness. Picked up the cloth. Flipped it around—the texture was too old to familiarize—feeling a quickening somewhere in his blood; the blood, it rushed to his fingertips as if eager to feel it too; more unfurling, and strips of white, straight, stood out to him. Heavy cloth though it was, it was not long before he turned it to a dark cross standing in the white.

_No._

Disbelief—he looked at it, flipped over the cloth some more, folding, unfolding, before finding another, then—because he should have grown taller since then, right?—grabbing the cloth by its shoulders—(shoulders, it really did have shoulders)—and letting all else go—

His old priest uniform, the cloak, rolled out and greeted him, tall and straight as another person.

As an immortal person, a proxy; funny, how it matched him in such a way. He might as well bow and greet the thing; it might as well bow and greet back. Hello, Herr Beilschmidt. How have you been since becoming a country?

Passing his tongue between his teeth, he stared at the thing.

What does one feel at this point?—this point, prodding him in the mind, the brain, in every bit of muscle memory he possessed. He was over eight hundred years old and his memories had begun to coagulate within four hundred of those years. It was too much to remember, really—any other person, someone who wasn't a nation, would not have stood much of a chance, and given to madness; moments had to be distinct, sharp, to be remembered vaguely, and ever the more prominent to be recalled to life.

He was rather like a vampire. Wasn't there some stupid book America had come up with about France's people becoming vampires and basically bitching for the whole series?—their two hundred years were nothing; at that point, he had already seen enough battles to fill twelve wars.

Maybe more.

...

It was a drifting. That was what happened with everyone, wasn't it?—friends come and go. It hurt along the way, when the rifts started opening and the water filled in—a sort of dull, growing awareness, the sort that wrought anxiety, also vague. But it happened. And for him, it was all he had.

Friendship. Companionship. Only she stayed around. Only she lived long enough. And only she could actually fill in the empty space in the air, somewhere beside him; only she could fill his mind and still come back. And live.

And then his hands were full of empty air.

I have everything, he thought, everything I need. It's lonely. But I don't need anyone.

Because clustering is for the weak.

One more reason to hate Austria.

Her friendship with Austria had ended his.

...

There was a draft.

She felt it before she heard it. Heard the creaking, heard the door. Of course; so that was what was out of place. Something had bothered her about this hallway, but she had not been not quite sure what. The creaking was heard again. She turned to the door, seeing now that it had slipped open a crack. She made to close it, all the way in to hear the click.

Then she heard breathing.

Perhaps it was the air; gripping her pan a little more firmly, she pulled the door open again, smoothly—no door in this house affixed badly, all doors were organized to the last bolt—the creak small; a sort of periwinkle light dotted the floor from a window down the hall; when was the last time this floor had seen light?

Not too long ago, as there were footmarks in the dust.

Prussia.

The dust was thick enough to muffle her steps; they were light enough to begin with. She had always had a light tread. As she went up, it became more and more apparent that the light was on above. She knew where these stairs were leading. The attic.

And she rose; the sight of Prussia's back, straight, came into view. She saw the rigidity of his back, the color of his clothes.

The length of the cloak.

She stiffened. Watched him.

Listened to him talk to himself. Or was it the robe he was talking to?

"What're you doing here?" he muttered at the thing, spreading the shoulders a little more. "You should've been torn up years ago... Gott, you're old. She didn't actually use the damn crotch cloth, did she?"

No, it was because it had fallen out of use for her.

"Not a bloodstain on you...have you been here this whole time? Gott, what an awful fate, being locked up in that pansy Austria's house. She couldn't have dumped it in her house or something. Jesus, you're old.

"Jesus, look at you. What the fuck have you been doing this whole time I was beating up kingdoms. Gott, things were so much simpler back then…but I wouldn't have experienced all that...West...West may not have existed the way he does now... I'm not even the Duchy of Prussia anymore. I'm just sort of...there."

By the angles of his face, his cheek, the little she could see, there was a small smirk folding in. "But there are still Prussians out there. As long as they stay stubborn and continue to be called Prussians, I'll be alive. Maybe alive even after that. I wasn't always Prussia. Before that, I wasn't even a country or a tribe. I mean..." A pause. She listened. "I mean...I could still exist. The same way I always have. If I can make it alone, without the knights and then without Alte Fritz, I can make it with West now. But just West."

(So, hello, Herr Beilschmidt. I see how you are now.)

And he fell silent, still staring at the thing. Perhaps there was more. But it certainly didn't come.

Hungary slumped a little. Wondered why. Realized. She had actually been hoping for a glimpse of her own name. She had thought it about it sometimes, and still sometimes thought about it. She may have been the closest thing he had to a friend back then—a flattery, but not without its sources. Then their paths diverged in the sharpest manner she could fathom.

She watched him now, as those paths curved a little closer to each other. But never touched. They would never touch again, she thought; they _must _not.

_I'm not important to you after all, _she thought. (Perhaps not for the first time.) The exposure, finally, told her enough; some part of her had been, she realized, hoping, and even fearing, for her significance in his history. Just as well, she thought, that her place in his mind was shriveled and grounded. Just as well that their histories would depart and curve away, nearing only with the touch of nettles. Was this relief she gulped down now, or exhaled, or was this a compacted sadness?

"Are you done moping?" Her voice, high and clear, disrupted the rumble of dust. He jumped and turned, eyes wide, hands gripping the cloak tightly. She watched the width of his eyes stretching to the sides, wide as plates, red as dusk; the whiter grip of his hands, the way the knuckles popped out, the ruts in the cloth. The crosses fluttered in the white strips.

His deflation was an aftermath; she knew that he really did fear her.

"Were you fucking spying on me?" he said, almost furiously, but with the same touch of sheepishness. "Mein Gott, what the hell are you doing here?"

"This is my house?" said Hungary, one eyebrow raised. Her pan was still in her hand.

"Oesterreich's," he snapped. "Not yours."

"Same thing."

"Then what the hell is this doing here?" He held out the cloth with both hands, grip never slacking. "You should've torn it up years ago. You didn't actually use my crotch cloth, did yo—" His face darkened. "How long have you been here?"

"A while."

"You didn't...hear anything...did you...?"

Really, the alarm on his face was _adorable. _"I heard everything," she said. She tipped her head, fighting back a smirk. Studied the cat-like quality of his eyes, only so because of the color. So bright, in the dark.

Prussia stepped back. Tried to, anyway. Instead, a foot hovered in the air behind him, very low, half an inch from the wooden floor. Elizaveta could swear she saw dust blowing in an upwards crater, billowing in a ring.

"You really do choose the strangest times to be honest," said Hungary. She allowed herself the smirk; it came out cheerful, as it was wont to.

But Prussia saw it oddly; it seemed strange, somehow wrong. There was something strange in it. And Hungary noticed the way he looked at her, looked at the smirk. She felt the strain.

"You can take it back, if you want," she continued, hundreds of years too late. "It's yours, anyway."

"You were supposed to tear it up." And, just like that last time she saw his face, it was set, the brow slanted and still; a sort of tension stiffened his body. Seriousness—it did not suit him. Even then...

The last time?

Not the last time...

But...that cloak, when he gave her the cloak...

Draping through the air like a curtain likened to a bird. Billowing and falling straight into her hands. One image she would never forget—the way it filled up the sun, and strained its light slowly. Like milk through canvas.

Her hand was already on the cloak, tugging slowly. It was still soft; it had been lying at the bottom of its box for most of its long existence, sheltered, almost useless. Almost useless?—it practically was. Another bit of clutter that a nation, once seeing, cannot quite let go of. But, like history, the debris builds. It gathers like dust, leaves a mess of the world and time.

He did not release.

Instead of demanding it, she only pulled harder, put both hands—that should yank it right away—

But she was tugging softly. She would never pull it away like that; and she knew, but she continued with that half-hearted strength, because tearing it away from him like that was the same as tearing—tearing...what, she could not quite picture.

Still, he did not let go. If anything, he started pulling, as well. "I can...take this back now. If I want," he said. He was watching her strangely. Eyes alight with red, pigment darkening, darkening, like some sort of paint slowly aging like wine. And they were coming closer, and she thought back to before she had knocked him out—when she had—she had—

What was she thinking?—_just to get that bit of Roderich off of him, _she tried to tell herself, even now, but, as time does, it ticked away at her, and she thought all the more of it; that was s_tupid._

And so she pressed her face closer to his, over their hands, over the cloth, the dust of the attic muffling the sounds.

It would never work between them, would it?

...

The heard the foot beats a heart step too late.

It disrupted the silence, the sounds of cloth sliding in the dark and old, and yet, it was not until Roderich stood five feet away, nearly falling off the steps from still surprise, until they were nearly there—faces an inch, or two, apart—that they looked away, reluctant to be pulled from rapture, and yet afraid all the same.

There was a gorged, dust-smothered silence.

Austria's face was frozen, first. His posture was already practically soldier-like in the way it stood straight as a board, in a fashion that almost surpassed Gilbert's; his shoulders were now beginning to slump backwards, as if ready to heave him down the stairs. His face was the sight to see, contorting and showing in a way that did not require a glance at the flowers in his hand. Elizaveta's eyes winced when they glanced them over, then back to the visage.

And that was when her hands slackened.

"Austria," she said. "You're awake." The flowers shook.

He breathed. Inwards.

"Ja," he wheezed. "I believe—my fever has broken...Hungary..." Outwards. In, again, before the breath escaped. "So what—are you doing..."

How to answer—?

And this time, Prussia was the faster one to act; to return the favor: "Your crazy bodyguard here was wondering how you taste when you smother yourself in vomit," he said, with more of a bored face than anything. "One of the weirder things she's done, really. Shit, keep the cloak." And she only had the time to turn, bewildered, when he set her hands flat and put the cloak back in them. "You should really consider cleaning out this attic, though. Like, throwing shit out, not actually keeping it clean. It's unnatural."

She was still holding the cloak when he walked down the stairs, the thumps of his feet leaving soft marks in the dust.

...

Austria had never been one to show his feelings loudly. Even now. Hungary had learned some quite some time ago that one only had to read his movements over the piano, and the sounds that clanged through the house.

And he was right back at it, the soft tinkering sounds bringing the blue of the house to a soft, calming shade.

And, in the sound, the movements, Hungary found some measure of peace—he did not suspect.

So there was no change, though the world is meant to change. Just...not here.

...

They never did have a chance, she would think, tucking the cloak away to gather dust a few more centuries, whatever the next few centuries may bring. Even if she wanted it. And it seemed that, during this...setback?...she had had to confront this in the most startling manner.

"Out the door," she told Prussia, in the mudroom. The cloak loomed a few floors above them, harmless thing it was.

"You can't make me," he replied automatically, but, beneath that, she could feel his shaking; not hear, feel. And he stepped out the door.

(Some things are better left unsaid...)

(Because they are remembered the most.)

Never had a chance, she thought to herself. And even if they did—

...

And he thought the same thing. Even if they did—even then...they would never stop fighting. Fire and fire. That was why she needed Austria. Because he was everything she was not. Everything she wanted for herself, but to not be herself. Because Prussia was wild as the sun in somersault. And too proud to love. And that was as much as he told himself.

"Wait." He turned, the words leaving his lips slowly, mesmerizingly. And he learned forward again, and she did not shrink, the green of her eyes wide as plains. "Keep the cloak," he said, and, "See you later."

And he kissed her. Fast, quick as the blink of an eye.

The most they could ever have.

And then he was gone.

...

Because "Ich liebe dich," are cursive words in blue ink, whispered silently over pink, dying flowers.

...

**_PT: Wanted to make more of a Vampire Chronicles reference. Eh...it didn't seem to fit. So, there you go. The end of Balaton. I was in a huge writing slump—high school stressed killed me over the last couple of years—but now I'm off to college, blehblehbleh, and I'm trying to regain my former writing ability. Hope you enjoyed my constant tease and whatnot. And you know I love critique. Give it to me, or else I'll feel sad and writing-slumpish again. Hope you enjoyed._**


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